Chapter 6
It’sa ten-minute walk from my apartment to the university where I’ll be getting my first—and hopefully only—postgraduate education. I walked by the building two days ago, just scoping the place out, figuring out where to get a cup of coffee or grab lunch during my breaks.
I still can’t believe I get to live in Rome, much less get my MBA.
It’s relatively early and I want to be well-caffeinated for my first day in classes, so I stop at the coffee shop near my apartment to pick up a cup.
I haven’t quite figured this out yet. Last time I ordered un caffè and got an espresso, which is a little intense for me. I hang back a bit to eavesdrop on other people’s orders—a tip Tessa gave me—and figure out how to get something closer to my regular order at the coffee shop back home.
After a few minutes, though, I give up and order a caffè freddo off the menu. I wait for it at the counter after fumbling with my bad Italian and thanking the barista in English.
The guy next to me catches my eye.
“American, yes?” He’s in his twenties, possibly, with deeply tanned skin and a floppy haircut. His smile is friendly.
I nod.
“What is your name?”
“Emma,” I say.
He steps close. Too close. “You American women like Italians, no?”
“Uh…”
His grin shifts, and it’s not so friendly anymore.
This isn’t the first time in my few days here that I’ve encountered unwanted attention, but this is definitely the most forward one.
“Emma, che bella che sei. I can help you, you know.”
My drink appears like magic, and I grab it. The southerner in me politely grits my teeth and says goodbye while walking away.
I make it out the door but move faster when he calls my name outside the shop. I take the next left turn, even though I’m not sure it’s the correct direction.
Keeping the pace up for a few minutes, I try to shake the encounter off. I’ve been catcalled once already. It was with my friends, and maybe the guy wasn’t catcalling me specifically, but it was enough that we stood closer together walking to the Pantheon.
I pull out my phone and figure out how to get to class, glad I got up early enough on the first day to account for some unforeseen circumstances. Soon, I’m at the university.
I gaze up at the building. There’s nothing special about it at all—it looks like the many other buildings in this neighborhood in Rome—bland, rather plain facades. But this building brought me thousands of miles away from the only life I’ve known.
Okay, this building and some peer pressure from my friends and gentle encouragement from my kids.
The degree at the end of my one-year MBA program is the carrot, and my ex is the stick.
He can take that stick and shove it up his?—
I take a deep breath, thinking about how Sara would tell me to focus my thoughts away from Bruce and toward my successes. She’s a yoga instructor and practices mindfulness, and she would tell me that my negative thoughts are hurting me more than they hurt my ex-husband, so I should do my best to encourage my mind back to my school and my success.
I’d always wanted to get my MBA. Bruce and I had talked about it a lot, but it always got pushed to “someday.” Well someday is now, and I’m going to show Bruce, myself, and my kids that I am a smart, independent woman, and that even after kids and a divorce I can start fresh and be whoever I want to be.
I use that thought to carry me forward. My messenger bag weighs heavily on my shoulders as I take the steps up into the building. A few people are filtering in, too, but not many: men and women, a variety of languages and ethnicities.
What they do have in common is that they are all younger than me.
Like, by a lot.
Like, my kids are closer in age to these people than I am.
My gray hair doesn’t help. I’m wearing it down today, and it brushes against my bare arms while I glance down at the paper with my schedule on it. The first week here is an orientation, and the first day is an introduction to the school, the curriculum, and the staff. My schedule says “auditorium,” and the people filtering in are all moving in the same direction, so I join the stream and hope I’m going the right way.
I’ve read the school’s brochures and statistics. Most people are late-twenties, early-thirties, with at least five years of related work under their belt. I have fifteen years’ experience running the small business that Bruce and I started together, Second Chances, but I’m not sure what that qualifies me for.
It was enough to get into the program, and that’s what matters, I suppose.
The auditorium hums, but it’s not crowded. I pick a spot in the middle row, a few seats between me and anyone else. No one has their laptops out, but a few people have tablets or notepads, so I leave my computer in my bag and pull out a spiral notebook. I bought a stash of them, and they bring me back to my school days. If only I could have tracked down a Lisa Frank notebook or at least some stickers.
I do, however, need a pen. Rooting around in my bag, I cannot find any writing utensils. I could have sworn I packed one. I remember putting a pen on the little coffee table in my apartment.
This bag isn’t that old. How are there already crumbs and grit in the corners of the pockets? And is that…
I pull out a smooth and thin square object. Yup, that’s a condom. No doubt Jade’s handy work.
Glancing up, I see that the guy three seats down has noticed me and my condom. My cheeks heat. I’m going to kill Jade.
Returning it to the pocket whence it came, I smile through my excruciating blush.
“I was looking for a pen. Do you have any? Pens, I mean, not…” I gesture vaguely. Or at least, I hope it’s a vague gesture. “Prophylactics.”
“I have a pen,” he says without meeting my eye. But he reaches into his bag, a leather satchel, and retrieves a blue pen.
“Thank you,” I say, and pull out my phone, diverting my attention to anywhere but the young kid I just used the word prophylactics in front of.
I open our group chat.
Emma
Great. The only words I’ve said to another student so far have been while holding a condom.
Jade
See? I knew you would need it. Aren’t you glad I shoved it in there?
(That’s what she said)
Emma
I’m not having sex with him!
Jade
Why not?
Okay, just kidding. I only snuck it in because I want you to be safe and have some fun.
Emma
You are lucky I love you so much.
Jade
I love you too.
Go learn stuff! Be awesome!
Tessa
Have a great first day at school Emma!
Sara
We love you!
Jade
Go kick some MBA ass!
That’s followed by a bunch of school-themed GIFs, from Nemo to cute kids to Grease, which ends in a naughty schoolgirl one sent from Jade. I roll my eyes.
Emma
You had to make it smutty, didn’t you?
Jade
Don’t kink shame! I like the way my legs look in pleated skirts.
And the spankings. You can’t have a naughty schoolgirl fantasy without the spankings.
Tessa
Your legs look great in everything, sweetie.
Jade
Challenge accepted.
I shake my head at Jade’s antics. Tessa is right; Jade looks great in everything. She’s petite, the complete opposite of my wider shoulders and hips and height. But if there’s one thing my friends have taught me in the months since the divorce, it is that clothes do make you feel sexier.
The dress that I wore last weekend, for example, when I went home with Santo. I definitely felt sexy in it.
Then the chat with my friends devolves into Jade sending increasingly ridiculous outfit ideas. The last one I see before I exit the chat is a guy with a black bowl cut and what looks like a bright green inflatable crop top.
My kids have also sent messages. It’s a group chat with the four of us: my oldest, Gabby; my middle child, Hattie; and my youngest, Parker.
It’s 8:30 a.m. here, which means it’s 11:30 p.m. back in LA, where Parker is in school. I thought Austin was progressive, but they wanted to go even further. Parker is living their best life right now, studying journalism, surfing in the mornings, and hanging out in gay bars at all hours of the night.
Which means I am not surprised to see a message from them that came in fifteen minutes ago.
Parker
Happy first day of school mom
Emma
Thank you. Now go to bed! Don’t you have class tomorrow?
Parker
Not until 10 and im working on an assignment. Youll understand when youre older
Emma
When I’m older?
Parker
Technically true. I bet two weeks from now youll be staying up late to work on school stuff. Haha
Emma
I’m rolling my eyes. Go to bed and eat your vegetables.
They send a kiss emoji back just as a throat at the front of the room clears. A white man who looks to be in his forties stands at the podium. Behind him on stage are a few rows of seats, all of which are filled with, I presume, staff. The room quiets, and anticipation bubbles in my chest. This is it. I’m finally starting my MBA.
The man introduces himself as the director, welcomes us, the students, and gives us an overview of the university’s history. The website says everything is taught in English, but I’m still relieved that this is, in fact, in English.
I look around the room in front of me. The students are mostly white and young, but a good percentage of them are Asian. Everyone is dressed so well, too. I look down at my own clothes. I’m wearing slacks and a button-up blouse, but I already feel frumpy in America. Here, everyone is fashionable and chic whereas I wear mom-jeans.
It’s okay, I am a mom. Thrice.
We’ve moved on to professor introductions. As the director announces their names, they stand and wave.
I might get mistaken for a professor. They’re closer to my age. Hell, I might be older than some of them.
While I recognize the courses and specialties of the professors being introduced, it’s a lot of names to remember, so I don’t pay a lot of attention until one name stands out.
“—Santo Offredi?—”
I freeze, eyes wide as I watch Santo, the hunky Italian silver fox who tried to give me my first non-solo orgasm in years, stand up from his seat and wave to the crowd.
Oh, my god.
Please don’t let him be teaching my classes, please don’t let him be teaching my classes…
“Mr. Offredi will teach many of your business fundamentals courses, especially financial basics. He has an extensive background with startups and technology companies, and was named our Educator of the Year last year.”
I sink into my chair. Not that Santo—oh crap, Professor Offredi—has noticed me. The first six months of the program are divided into six-week terms, where we have four classes a day. I cannot believe my bad luck. Of all the hot, nice, sexy men in my age range in Rome who happened to be in the right bar on the right night and who met the approval of my friends and who was actually interested in me, I had to pick the one who is my professor?